Clipped Wings

Clipped Wings

My oldest daughter, Lisa, has been working as a summer camp counselor at the Blackstone Community Center where I manage my GED school. We’re tag team runners—when I left for the summer I handed off the baton to her. It wasn’t an easy adjustment for her. Being a counselor for eight-twelve year olds can be taxing and her e-mails to me at the beginning of the summer reflected that. But over the weeks she has grown gracefully into the role and now she’s talking about going back next summer.

Last week I headed into the city to have lunch with her at that famous chi-chi South End eatery—the Blackstone school cafeteria. After hearing Lisa’s horror stories about her group I’m not sure what I expected to see. Anything but the sweet little faces that looked at me so curiously wondering who this strange lady was who was lunching with their “Miss Lisa”. When Lisa told them that I was her mom, their jaws dropped open, “Really??!” they chorused not understanding the fact that counselors have moms.

“I don’t know,” she said to me. “They’re being really good today. I’m not sure what’s going on.” But then she remembered why they were being so angelic. That Friday they were going on their favorite field trip: an afternoon at a roller skating rink.

“It’s great having something to hold over their heads,” Lisa said. “If they act up I simply threaten them with not going to the rink and they stop instantly.” She was looking forward to the trip because she was sure that the kids would be having too much fun to get into trouble. I thought that one of the reasons that there wouldn’t be any problems is that most of the kids would have their hands full just staying upright. I know, because I’ve had the same problem.

Not when I was roller skating in my neighborhood though. All of us who grew up on the Brooklyn streets were born with our skates on. You started with aluminum training skates until you could get around without falling and then you traded up to ball bearing skates, or “ball bearings” as we called them. They weighed a ton. I remember putting them on for the first time and wondering how I was going to even lift my feet off the ground let alone skate around the block.

Our skates were worn over our sneakers and their length and width were adjusted with a skate key. Everyone wore their key on a lanyard around their neck. They were indispensable and we wore them as badges of honor. I can still remember the concentration involved in getting the fit just right. Too loose and the skates would fly off your feet taking you with them, too tight and you couldn’t maneuver as well. But after buckling the leather straps just right and painstakingly adjusting the rest, you could fly the city streets. And that’s exactly what it felt like—flying. Those were freedoms that a kid could appreciate—speed, recklessness, daring.

Years later when Steve and I were first married we were walking along the Charles River path with the joggers, bikers and baby carriages, when I saw someone zoom by me on roller skates. Suddenly I was eight again, longing for the feeling of racing through the streets on wheels. We found a store that rented skates and I was ecstatic. When the store owner asked us if we wanted to rent them for the entire day Steve thought it might be best if we started with half. I reluctantly agreed.

The owner fitted us and then explained the basics of turning and stopping, but I had no patience for him—after all I was a pro, I didn’t need his lessons. I just wanted to get out there, even though these shoe-skates felt different than my old ball bearings. But I was sure that I would be fine once I hit the streets. I eagerly stepped out the door and if it hadn’t been for Steve I would have immediately been sitting on my rear. Sure that it was only a fluke I started out again, only to almost fall on my face---again. What was going on here? Something was obviously wrong with these skates.

For the next hour, my childhood went down in flames. No matter what I tried I was always on the verge of falling. I had absolutely no control of those skates. I heard myself screaming, “Out of my way, out-of-control skater coming through!” to every kid, biker, jogger and baby carriage that I came upon, and on a Saturday along the Charles there were plenty of them. I was like Moses parting the sea. To my further humiliation Steve was doing just fine, so it was obviously not the skates but me.

Finally, almost in tears, I gave up.

“Enough! I want to take these skates back!” I yelled at Steve.

So back we went, the guy at the store asking us if everything was okay since we were back so soon. I just glared at him and gathered my battered pride as I huffed out of the store. Steve put his arm around me trying to console me for the loss of a childhood pleasure. I just sat there sadly realizing that I would have to find another way to fly.